Little Imperfections
by Geisterdamen
Summary: They've both got their habits, some harmful, some benign, but it's what makes them who they are, even in the smoke of battle.


**AN: This is my first fanfic, ever. So please expect mistakes. It's just an exercise to get into the characters heads. Have at!**

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He's imperfect and you know it.

You've seen him behave like an utter fool, and during that time in your other life you would have beaten up people like him just because you could. You say it's your other life because they day he dropped into it, the part of you that was starving for humanity was fulfilled, and you were reborn as at least part of the happy child you used to be.

Even though you forced yourself into his life and you know he's uncomfortable with that, he's done his best to take in all of your faults and accept them as part of you, just you; not your father's blood, not your mother's background, not a mafia brat, but _you_. He values your whole life, not only the parts that are useful or deadly.

And you've been smiling lately,

And laughing, and crying, and learning, and trusting, and falling deep into something that's got you lying awake at night with your heart banging against your chest,

Because it's new, and frightening, and so damn wonderful.

There are days you feel like you'll explode!

…

But today,

Tonight,

As you lie awake breathing,

And your heart pounds...

You're at peace,

Because your chaotic world finally has a focus,

And it's _Him._

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His arrival is a bit of a fuss in the classroom. He looks dangerous and completely foreign, and the female population of the class is already in love with his exotic demenour.

_So girls like that type, huh? _

Those are the first words to enter your head upon seeing him. You're concerned, because the girl you really, **really** like is in the same room. Does she like him too? She's smiling at him!

_Damn it! He's ticking me off!_

Your eyes meet and he glares at you, just you, and it's like someone's got a knife pressed to your throat.

You're already scared.

Later you learn why.

He hates your guts on principle, because the only thing he values is **strength** and nothing more. He denounces you as _weak_ and unfit to lead the group that you wanted nothing to do with in the first place,

And then he tries to kill you! _Kill you! __**With bombs!**_

And it's only by the grace of your Dying Will that you're able to survive the volleys,

Because with each failed attempt on your life he increases the amount of firepower, Because it's his creed that **might makes right** and eventually you'll falter!

But it's him that makes the mistake, that drops the first stick of dynamite,

Who can't hold on to the rest, who looks for all the world like he's already resigned to what's coming,

Because his **strength** has **failed** him.

And you don't care about that.

When you're in this state you barely think at all, but…

Instinctively,

You save his life,

And you've been saving him ever since.

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There's this habit he has,

You've noticed.

He. Chews. On. Everything.

It's not an uncommon nervous tic, but every time he can't understand the equation you're trying to explain to him, or you sneak a peak at him during a test, there's that damn pen again,

Or pencil,

Or eraser,

Or anything phallic really…

And you really, _really_ wish he'd stop,

Because it's fifth period,

And the bell is about to ring,

And there's no way you can stand up.

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Sometimes you're not exactly sure what he's thinking.

Usually it's plain as day that he's there to please you.

But there's this look he gets, at the strangest times,

And then he goes quiet,

And still.

It's even happened in the middle of a party.

He'll leave shortly afterwards without saying anything to anyone,

Even you.

You know what to expect after that. He'll push himself to the breaking point, beyond all sane reason, as if desperately trying to prove his worth. You never thought there could be anyone who was more self-destructive than yourself, but he seems to have it down to a science, and you can't fathom _why_.

Then one day you see him standing victorious in yet another one of your unwanted skirmishes, and he sees you too, and there's this **other** _look_ on his face,

And it's _**burning.**_

'_Oh'_

You think.

"I beat him Tenth! Did you see that?"

…

'_That's his pride.' _

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Twenty-seven minutes ago you were both sitting on the floor in his bedroom. As always, it's a little messy. You think you left a book here yesterday, but he's downstairs now so you can't ask, not with your damn sister down there.

You realize that this is the first time you've ever been in this room completely alone for any significant amount of time.

You take it in.

The small working table that you've been doing your homework on is dinged and scraped, as if it's been treated carelessly. In the corner where his game consol is, the playable titles are strewn all over the floor and the controller has been left in the middle of the floor. The bed is unmade and badly rumpled, as if he hasn't been sleeping well. There's a small wall outlet nightlight that's been badly conceiled behind the wastebasket.

All of it tells you what kind of person he should be.

And then you hear his feet coming up the stairs, and he calls to you.

"_Sorry about that Gokudera-kun, Lambo had another fight with Reborn and I had to calm him down since Mom's not here. You weren't bored were you?"_

You smile with your whole heart.

"_Not at all, Tenth!"_

Because he's nothing like the room.

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This is probably not the oddest quirk he has, but it's one of the funnier ones.

He's sitting there in your room, covered from head to toe in colored strips and clippings with the most disgruntled look on his face, and you come to the realization that he can't do this one thing that even **you** are capable of.

Gokudera. Fails. At. Papercrafts.

And it's hilarious!

You laugh uncontrollably until you're able to wipe the tears from your eyes. His face is beet red and you're trying not to giggle again as he mumbles an apology.

You shake your head and tell him to scoot over, and the next hour is devoted to gently guiding his hands and whispering encouragement when he gets frustrated.

By the end of it he's produced probably the saddest looking paper-tree you've ever seen, but he proudly displays it to you, like it's a work of art.

You're looking at each other, and you're smiling like idiots, and you spend the rest of the afternoon doing completely stupid things.

The paper-tree gets put on top of your dresser when he leaves.


End file.
